Adele Ashworth (18 page)

“May I inquire why you’ve come all the way to Marseilles to meet him?”

Her eyes shot back to Madeleine’s.

The Frenchwoman smiled perceptively, pushing a dark curl from her temple with the back of an elegant hand. “It is a somewhat daring pursuit, don’t you think?”

For the first time that night, Natalie considered lying. Her reasons were so personal, even embarrassing, and confiding in anyone might actually be risky, for many complicated reasons. She could also never admit to anyone that she had bright visions from time to time of herself in the arms of the Thief of Europe. That was just too silly, though it would probably be believed considering the standard romantic nature of most unmarried ladies her age. Still, as much as she enjoyed this woman’s company, and although she needed to say something, it behooved her to divulge as little as necessary.

Absentmindedly she touched the cameo at her neck, rubbing it between her fingers. “I’m very much interested in him professionally. I need him to help me locate something quite important and—personal.”

Madeleine stared hard at her for several silent seconds. “Oh, I see. . . .”

Natalie started to feel agitated again, uncomfortably warm. This wasn’t where she wanted the conversation to go and she hoped Madeleine wouldn’t be so unmannerly as to delve deeper into her private thoughts and plans. She decided not to let her by changing the topic of conversation herself.

“So tell me, how did you arrange for Jonathan to purchase the comte d’Arles’s priceless sword, and I assume it’s priceless?”

Madeleine’s expression never changed. For a long moment she looked at her boldly, features neutral but eyes vividly alert. Then with care she pulled her shawl from her arm and draped it across her lap.

“Yes, it’s priceless,” she acknowledged, “which I believe is the only reason he traveled so far from home to acquire it. The interest in the transaction came to me by rumor because my late husband was a trader and knew various men of importance in the Paris area. The count lives there for part of the year. But I didn’t ask Jonathan why he wanted to buy it, and I really don’t know the details. I merely set up the meeting.”

Natalie smiled. “It does sound a bit ridiculous, but to be fair the man collects weapons, both modern and antique, as a hobby.”

Madeleine studied her critically again. “I assumed he must.”

She felt warmth creeping into her cheeks and decided it best to clarify. “Of course, I’ve only been in his home once, in his study, but he has one wall covered with swords and pistols and other sundry munitions. I suppose they’re probably worth a small fortune.”

Madeleine softened, gracing her with a knowing grin. “Really? I suppose collecting is a common diversion for a gentleman, though, is it not?”

Natalie closed her fan, placing it in her lap.

“It’s certainly a diversion for him,” she acquiesced, a trace of amusement coloring her tone. “And it is an extensive collection in which I know he takes a great deal of pride. I would just find myself more impressed if a gentleman as sharp and impassioned as Jonathan better spent his time on more worthy or notable causes, perhaps addressing government issues or social problems. Instead, he seems to spend much of his life in frivolous pursuits of personal enjoyment, traveling the world at his leisure, spending his money on insignificant treasures.” She shook her head. “So much time . . . playing.”

It occurred to her at that moment, with some surprise, that she’d never thought of him in such detail before, considering the fine points of his personality with no knowledge of childhood factors that might have shaped him, molding him into the man he was now. And she’d also just described almost exactly the type of unconventional man she’d told Jonathan on the ship she wanted to marry—a man not tied to stiff society and its stifling mores, but free and adventurous and filled with the desire to experience the joys and excitement of life. Irritably she also realized he would have caught this blunder of hers at the time.

“You like him, don’t you?” Madeleine asked quietly, eyes intense and full of insight.

“Yes, I do,” she admitted through a sigh, slumping a little into her corset. “He’s very charming and considerate, as I’m sure you’re aware. But our relationship is strictly one of casual friendship. Nothing more.”

“Of course not,” Madeleine agreed appropriately with a slight drop of her chin.

Natalie’s voice tightened as she added, “All women seem to be aware of his attractive personality. They adore him, and he knows it. He thrives on it, which is
not
one of his better qualities. But naturally that’s none of my business.”

Madeleine chuckled softly, studying her for a second or two, head tilted. Then she reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “I wouldn’t judge him so severely, Natalie. The man has more depth and devotion than you probably realize.”

For a moment she wondered how the Frenchwoman would know this. Before she could comment, however, Madeleine’s expression thinned as her gaze shifted to a group of ladies strolling in their direction.

“Oh, dear. Madame Vachon and her tiresome daughter, Helene.” She sighed, grasped her fan and shawl, and gracefully stood. “Helene does nothing but talk of the gaieties of Paris and how she married above us all—a financier, I believe, of noble blood, who died unexpectedly on the honeymoon and left her a fortune. I suppose I should intercept them first and say hello.”

Natalie took the opportunity, standing as well and swishing her opened fan again, attempting to keep the eagerness out of her voice. “I think I’ll walk a little, then. Maybe wander into the foyer where it isn’t quite so stuffy.”

“A good idea,” Madeleine agreed. “And it’s probably time you looked for Jonathan. The count’s daughter will be down shortly.” She stepped forward, then paused and turned back. “Do not be blind to his admirable qualities as a man, Natalie,” she admonished quietly. “Everything you want for yourself is available to you here, although your greatest desire may not be wrapped in the package you would choose to open first.”

That bold statement confounded Natalie, leaving her uncharacteristically blank of response. Again she sensed that Mme. DuMais knew something she did not, that she and Jonathan were guarding secrets within secrets, of people and events of deeper meaning. But it was a troubling thought so vague she could do nothing about it, least of all put it into words.

Madeleine smiled again as if reading her mind. “Remember, you can always confide in me, about anything. Find me later and we’ll talk more.” With that she lifted the full skirt of her beautiful gown, pivoted smoothly, and walked away.

I
t took Jonathan nearly fifteen minutes just to meander through groups of people, into the foyer, and up the stairs. Of course, if anyone asked, he’d say he was looking for his wife, or that he’d heard the count had an outstanding private art collection in his study and that he thought several acquaintances had mentioned they’d be viewing it momentarily. When he was consequently informed he was mistaken, he’d stress that he only knew a little French and perhaps he’d misunderstood. His charm would get him through if he were caught. If Jonathan was anything, he was experienced with deception.

But he didn’t get caught, and he wasn’t seen once he slipped out of the foyer and up the staircase, and in actuality he spoke far better French than anyone would ever guess. He was a master of his craft, but what made him great was that he was never pompous. He was humble enough—or perhaps smart enough was a more accurate phrase—to realize he could never afford the luxury of arrogance. Every time he left his home to do a job, he calculated the different ways of being exposed, of someone learning his intentions and discovering his identity. He knew that without caution and an alert mind ready for immediate change in action, always, he could end up jailed or more likely dead. Neither was a possibility he liked to contemplate.

Quietly he made his way along the hallway. The lights were low, though not unusually so for a private home this time of night. Naturally neither the family nor staff felt it necessary to illuminate brightly an area that really wouldn’t, and shouldn’t, be traversed by a party guest.

His shoes made a soft padding noise on the dark carpet, but the gaiety of the ballroom below muffled any echo he might have made with his stride. Annette-Elise and her maids were on the same floor, though at the other end of the house, getting ready for an entrance less than twenty minutes away, but his greatest concern was stumbling into servants. As in all grand households, they were everywhere—in the shadows and corners and otherwise vacant rooms. Like furniture, as some without consideration tended to treat them—with function but lacking minds or feelings. Jonathan knew better and deemed them as threatening as Lemire himself.

He needed to hurry. He was beginning to feel an almost unnatural ache to be back in the ballroom by Natalie’s side. She would become suspicious if he didn’t return soon, and he trusted Madeleine to keep her entertained for only so long before her mischievous nature took over and she considered looking for him.

At last he reached the study door. He paused, listening, ear pressed close to the panel for any sound coming from the other side. Nothing.

He placed his palm on the knob, turned it until it clicked, and pushed the door open.

The room was dark. Moonglow through the windows added little brightness, but it was too risky to find a lamp. He would have to do without, he decided, closing the door behind him.

He knew the layout well. Desk to the right, two chairs sitting opposite, cold fireplace along the west wall, the safe above the mantel. He waited only seconds for his eyes to adjust, then promptly felt his way across the room, ears sharp, mind alert should he need to prevaricate.

At last Jonathan stood before the safe, the Fragonard now lowered from its hanging position on the wall. He reached out and touched the cold metal. The safe was wide open and empty. Annette-Elise would be wearing the emeralds tonight, as rumor foretold.

Nimbly he stuck his fingers into the folds of his breast pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. Then with care, he set it inside, easily seen and ready to be discovered.

He grinned broadly in the blackness.

His plans were falling into place.

Chapter 9

H
enri Lemire quietly stepped inside his private library on the second floor, tumbler in hand filled to the brim with excellent whiskey, and closed the door behind him. Less than twenty minutes until Annette-Elise’s debut, and he would need to be present. Decisions would have to be made quickly here now, as time was critical, and this would likely be their only opportunity tonight.

Alain Sirois, vicomte de Lyon, had already entered, squeezing his rotund frame into one of the two brown leather chairs. He had arrived only late last night, making this their first opportunity to speak privately, and unfortunately it would have to be in haste. Michel Faille would be here as well, any second now, and finally they would get down to the business of saving France.

Alain began to chatter about his annoyance with his wife, an obnoxious woman, loud and round and ugly. Henri leaned against a bookshelf, smiling and nodding attentively when necessary, sipping his whiskey while his mind wandered to much more pleasing issues, like Madame Quinet’s large breasts rubbing his chest during a dance promised him later, or serious issues like the precious emerald necklace to be dismantled with care and sold tomorrow at noon. Alain, with his white, thinning hair, long pointed nose, and dark eyes like a crow’s, was nearly as irritating to look at as he was to listen to. But he had excellent connections in Paris and was extremely useful to their cause, so Henri treated him like an old family friend, which of course he was not. Everything else aside, however, Alain loathed Louis Philippe, and that was their common thread.

Alain fell silent, to Henri’s relief, as the door opened for a second time and Michel Faille, vicomte de Rouen, entered without pause. An outrageously tall man, he stood at nearly six and a half feet and was thin of build but carried himself awkwardly for someone who had possessed such a body for more than fifty years. He maintained a harsh, shrewd personality, often cruel and coarse to his inferiors, but had features like those of a dove—pale complexion, graying hair, unnaturally soft skin like that of a woman’s, and large brown eyes with droopy lids. His looks had served him well through the years because they caught people unawares. One would treat him like a sweet, gentle man only to learn he could be brilliant and almost evil in thought and action. Henri actually admired him for that.

“Lovely party, Henri,” Michel noted with sarcasm, strolling to the only empty chair in the room. He sat clumsily, his huge feet planted on the plush Aubusson carpet, which naturally placed his knees above the armrests in height. “I assume we can talk candidly here.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Henri ignored it. “The sale is set for tomorrow noon,” he began after a long swallow from his glass. “I’ll ride into the city about ten and should be back here by one or two, cash in hand. We’ll divide it evenly tomorrow night after which you two will return home. The affair in Paris is two weeks from tonight. Our gracious king plans to attend, at least for now, and we will go with that—”

“Not enough time, Henri,” Alain interjected with a snort, attempting in vain to adjust his enormous body in the chair.

“Of course it’s enough time,” Michel snapped irritably. “Don’t be stupid. Starving men walk the streets of Paris by the thousands. Any one of them will do it tomorrow for a price. Hiring a professional instead is just better business, and this is business, Alain. We must be diligent and careful, but act fast.” He shifted his supple, feminine gaze to Henri, turning his attention to a matter more urgent. “Where are the jewels now?”

Henri drew a long, steady breath, stalling for thought as he began to pace in front of bookshelves lined floor to ceiling along the wall, snugly filled with leather-bound volumes of literature, poetry, and history. They weren’t going to like his answer at all, but it was his house, his beloved daughter, and by all rights, his emeralds. He was the one to devise the plan, and he was the one who paid to have them stolen in the first place. Any argument on their part would be moot at best.